


The Lord has a dog now, I just sent him mine

by ijustlookatpictures



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Deacon's dead and the boy did love his dog, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I've said it before and I'll say it again - I'm terrible at tagging, Like traumatic, M/M, Sledge tries to process everything, Snafu comforts him, Snafu had a terrible childhood, Snafu plays with his hands when he's uncomfortable, There's feelings but Eugene has no idea what to do with them, bonding over dogs, fallout from Leyden's injury, they comfort each other, unaddressed feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23121238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustlookatpictures/pseuds/ijustlookatpictures
Summary: How long had he waited for him? He wondered, his mind drawn to their final goodbye.He had held Deacon for a long time, before kissing him, promising to be home by Christmas. Deacon had licked his hand and whined softly, his tail thumping against the floor.He had settled on the entry way rug as he had shut the door, like he always did when he left the house. Ready to greet him when he came home.Except he never did come home; not to Deacon, at least.Sledge struggles to process his dog's death - Snafu helps.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton & Eugene Sledge, Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	The Lord has a dog now, I just sent him mine

**Author's Note:**

> Snafu's attempt to comfort Sledge after he received the news about Deacon's was by far one of my favourite moments in the series.
> 
> Their interaction was heartbreaking and, I felt, was only the tip of the iceberg. This is a continuation of that night.
> 
> * TRIGGER WARNING - There is mild reference to animal baiting, however it is in no way graphic nor descriptive, merely the use of the words. *

Even after that had packed up and moved out for the day, whilst others' thoughts were on Bill and the battle at hand, the words in his Mother's letter continued to monopolise Eugene's.

**_I'm so sorry to tell you, darling, but Deacon passed away last Monday. Please do not fret for him; he was peaceful._ **

She had divulged no further information, not that he was sure he wanted her to.

Instead, the remainder of the content had been purposely kept light: his brother was being sent home, his cousin had had her baby, his Father was well, Sidney stopped by.

He wished he cared, he really did. Instead, he remained consumed only by thoughts of Deacon.

**_Stay safe, my son. We love you and miss you so very, very much and cannot wait until we have our boys back home with us. All my love, Mother._**

Despite his Mother's constant assurances of his safe return; he tried not to think of home too often. 

Thinking of home was too dark a reminder of the desolation of Okinawa.

The stench of death overwhelmed every sense, there was no escaping it. It hung heavy over the air, a thick fog that was impossible to escape. It permeated the mud and impregnated every breath they drew, it rotted everything it touched. It served as a constant reminder, as conspicuous as the hordes of the flies and rats that swarmed the bodies of their fallen comrades. _You aren't going home from this, if you do, you will never be the same - because you, too, are rotten._

The stench of death could not be forgotten, nor could it be washed away. It lived within him now - he was one with death. He'd ceased being Eugene a long time ago; Eugene with the lovely home, an innocent mind and a faithful dog. Now he was Sledge, a traumatised young man, rotten from war.

To think of home would rot that, too. It would impinge it with the death of Okinawa. 

He had left his family in safely and peace; in a different lifetime. They didn't know of the horrors that he had seen. They didn't know of the horrors he had inflicted. The stench of death hadn't existed back home.

Except now it did; because Deacon was dead.

 _How long had he waited for him?_ Eugene wondered, his mind drawn to their final goodbye.

He had held Deacon for a long time, before kissing him and promising to be home by Christmas. Deacon had licked his hand and whined softly, his tail thumping against the floor. He had settled on the entry way rug as the door had snapped closed behind him, like he always did when he left the house. Ready to greet him when he came home. Except he never did come home; not to Deacon, at least.

_Did he realise I wasn't coming back before he died? Or was he still waiting on the area rug when he passed? Was he lonely? Did he miss me? Was he upset with me? Was he angry?_

‘What kind’a dog is he?’ Shelton’s drawl broke through the thundering of Eugene's thoughts and suddenly he was ripped from memories of home and returned to the stinking mud of Okinawa.

The cacophony of distant bullets and the hum outlying whizzing shells, paired with the pattering of, mercifully lighter, rain had drawn him into a sense of isolation from his fellow Marines. Yet as he glanced up, he was faced with the sickening reminder he was stuck in a boggy foxhole with Shelton, Peck and Hamm.

‘Huh?’ Eugene responded, his mind elsewhere, gaze still fixed to the starry sky, his helmet protecting his scalp from most of the grimy mud beneath him.

‘Deacon.’ Came the response a beat later.

Eugene blinked in surprise. Since their interaction that afternoon, when he had first been handed the letter and after Bill's injury they hadn't really spoken. Not since Shelton, in his own way, had attempted to comfort him. Hesitantly sitting beside him, voice uncharacteristically gentle, hands clasped, eyes frantic as he tried desperately to say _he's had a good, long life, don't be sad._

But Eugene hadn't spoken his name; he was sure of that. To speak his name personalised him too much. He only remember naming Deacon once, way back in Peleilu. The fact that Shelton, who failed to remember what the Boots, who they worked with for _weeks at a time_ , were called. The fact _Shelton_ could remember his dog's name simply... astounded him.

‘Spaniel.’ He stated, choosing not to draw attention to such a matter.

His eyes rolling towards Shelton’s figure, crouched by the top of the hole, poncho glistening with rain drops, dirty face peering at the distant flame of shells being launched at the skyline.

He turned his head to look at him, as though he felt Eugene's gaze settle on him. ‘Them’s the ones with d'floppy ears?’ He asked, resting his cheek against the muzzle of his gun that he held between his legs.

Eugene smiled, softly, remembering the warmth of Deacon’s coat beneath his fingers, the way he would lick at his hand if he knew something was troubling him, how he would butt his way in through the kitchen door and stroll across the house, leaving a trail of mud in his wake, without a care in the world.

Mud was Deacon’s favourite thing; he’d have loved Okinawa.

‘Yeah.’ He answered, quietly, picking at his nails as he spoke. ‘They’re the ones.’

‘Colour was he?’ Another voice interjected and they startled slightly, expecting a Jap with a Mid-Western accent to be creeping in the trench. It was only Hamm. 

They still hadn't grown used to the new boys yet, it had been themselves, Burgie, Leyden, Jay and Bill for so long... but Jay was gone. Bill was too, now. The group was moving on; so must they.

He closed his eyes, replaying the falling shell, replaying Bill's screaming, replaying the feeling of helplessness as Hamm and Shelton held him down, the mud cold and thick beneath him as they struggled, replaying how Shelton's desperate heartbeat had mirrored his own, his voice desperate in his ear.

_Not you too, Sledgehammer, not you too._

One thing he'd learnt in this godforsaken war was that if you dwelled on past events, you would go insane.

Oswalt, Ack Ack, Hillbilly, Gunny Haney, all the fucking Boots who barely made it a week and now Bill.

Too many had died, but you had to keep going, you had to force yourself to forget - to move on. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not rip his mind from Deacon.

‘Black.’ He stated, imagining the familiar, soft face beside him. 'Black and white.'

He saw death every day, he inflicted death, he thought he was numb to death.

He had just watched one of his closest friends almost be ripped apart before his eyes, yet that hadn't bothered him as much as the contents of his Mother's letter.

Why the death of a dog, who had never known a day of pain or hardship, affected him more than any of the atrocities he'd witnessed, he would never know.

But Hamm's simple use of the word _was. What colour **was** he? __Was_ made him want to weep. _Was_ addressed the finality of Deacon's death. He didn't want to address it; he wanted his friend. It was then that he realised that Shelton had spoken of the dog like he was still there; like he too felt it too soon to acknowledge his demise.

There was a lingering silence before Shelton spoke again.

‘I like d'ones with the floppy ears.’ He stated, with a soft smile, eyes gazing warmly into nothingness. Eugene glanced back towards him, despite himself, he felt the corner of his lip twitching.

For all the Nips in Japan, Eugene would never have considered Shelton to be a dog man.

He never considered him to be an _anything_ man. He was just Snafu. Hell, if you started to question what kind of man he was or worse yet _why_ he was the way he was, one of two things would happen - either your head would either explode or your heart would break. Perhaps, both.

After his Mother's letter, Eugene considered his heart well and truly broken and he was somewhat fond of his head, so he chose not to question the mind of as Snafu, as a rule.

But he longed to learn of the mind of Shelton. The personality beneath the unhinged exterior. The Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde.

The man who ended the suffering of dying men, not the man who clawed out their fillings. The man who prevented Eugene's decline into depravity, not the man who played target practice with a shattered cranium. The man who put forward his opened tin to the frightened boot, not the man who delighted in stripping new recruits of their morale.

The man who would haul the mortar from Eugene's weary shoulders onto his own with a swear word and a kick to his backside, ensuring he kept moving, even when he was convinced he would collapse. The man who somehow seemed to get him laughing when he felt he would never so much as smile again. The man who was always at his side, keeping him from danger, keeping him sane.

The man who sat at his shoulder in solidarity, understanding the death of a dog was more devastating than all the depravity which surrounded them. 

Sure, Eugene liked Snafu; despite how much of an asshole he was, despite how he always seemed to be teetering on the knife edge of emotional collapse and moral perversion.

He liked Snafu; but he adored Shelton.

 _Oh to have known you before this shit_. He pondered, still gazing intently towards Shelton in the dark.

‘Floppy eared ones don't do it for me… I prefer the ones with pointed ears.’ Peck’s voice ripped him from his pondering ‘Like Alsatians.’

‘Ain’t no one care what you prefer, Kathy.’ Shelton’s voice hardened, as it always did with Peck. ‘This ‘bout, _Deacon_.’ He watched Shelton wave his hand dismissively towards Peck. ‘Go fap off to yo’ ugly wife or som’thn.’

Peck fell quiet.

Sure the new Boot was an asshole; that was certain. He was a philanderer, he was a bullshitter, he was a show off, he was thoughtless and arrogant - but Eugene didn't consider him to be deserving of the level of vitriol that Snafu threw at him.

He'd questioned Shelton about it as they sat huddled in a foxhole, together, one night. _Why does he get under your skin so bad?_

After a few minutes of vehemently denying that he was affected by Peck, he'd given a sigh and an eye roll. 

_Reminds me too much of ma Daddy. Fuckin' show off. Liar. Grew up wi' guys like him... nasty bastards... he ain't so bad now sure... give him a decade._ He'd spat into the mud. _He a lie... putain de kawin._ He'd lit a cigarette. _I w_ _ear scars cos'a bastards like him, Gene. Watched my Momma weep her whole goddamn life cos my Old Man was like him._ He'd lit a cigarette. _By rippin' him down a peg or twenty, trust me... I'm tryin' to do us all a favour... he's gonna get one of us killed, mark ma words. Boy ain't good, Sledgehammer._

Eugene hadn't thought much more of the matter, putting it down to Snafu's unsubstantiated ravings... hadn't thought much of it at all, until after the truth came out about Kathy. The mistress; not the wife.

He'd looked at Peck differently after that; Shelton had been right... perhaps not to the extent he claimed... but he'd been right enough.

‘Had he been sick?’ Hamm asked, pushing past the ever awkward exchange.

‘Not that I know of.’ He responding, rolling his head back up to look up at the sky. ‘Not that they told me.’

‘It must’ve been quick then.’ He stated, with a hopeful smile. ‘Didn’t suffer. Short and sharp.’ He clicked and Eugene winced.

_Had it been quick? How had he died? Had the vet injected him as he warmed himself by the hearth? Had his Father shot him as he relaxed in the garden?_

Eugene took a breath. ‘I hope so.’ He said, raising his head again. ‘It’s so stupid…’ He paused, pondering the least emotional way of saying _"I_ _don’t know why it hurts so much"_. ‘He’s just a dog.’

‘Ain’t no such thing…’ Shelton stated, dryly. ‘Not when he’s your dog.’

‘Dogs are special.’ Hamm agreed. 'It's a damn shame that you missed it, ‘specially when we’re so close to gettin’ home.’

Shelton and Eugene glanced at one another through the darkness but chose not to comment.

‘You got a dog?’ Eugene asked, looking towards Hamm.

He nodded. ‘We got two.’ He stated. ‘Beagles, Bitches.’

‘Either of 'em named Kathy?’ Shelton asked, smirking to himself at his own joke.

‘Ain’t funny, Snafu!’ Peck snapped from the other side of the foxhole and despite himself, Eugene smiled, softly.

Hamm shook his head, grin plastered to his own face. ‘Nah.’ He stated. 'Molly and Jane.'

''kinda dog is called Jane?' Shelton asked, with a quirk of his lip, before noting the disparaged look on Hamm's face. 'Oh I'm only playin', Hamm.'

Slowly, the Boot smiled again. ‘You got a dog?’ He asked and they turned to Shelton.

The smile immediately evaporated from his lips and he lowered his face to the ground. He rummaged in his pocket for a moment, pulling out his cigarettes. He raised one to his mouth, cupping it from the rain as he attempted to light it with matches - his lighter having long been lost to the mud.

Silently, Eugene withdrew his own from his breast pocket, igniting it and reaching towards him. The flame illuminated their faces as they both leant into one another, Eugene was struck by how vulnerably childlike he looked in that moment - just a boy. A boy who needed a good wash, a tight hug and kind words. Their gaze held for a lingering moment until the cigarette was lit and the lighter snuffed out.

Shelton cleared his throat. ‘No.’ He responded, simply, his fleeting look of vulnerability disappearing with the flame.

‘Used to?’ Hamm pressed.

‘Mmm hmm.’ Shelton nodded, holding the cigarette clandestinely against his knee, so close to his hands that Eugene was positive he must be burning his skin. ‘When I was a kid.’

He spoke in a way that made it apparently clear that he did not wish to talk further on the matter.

He’d wanted to speak of Deacon, he’d wanted to give Eugene the opportunity to share Deacon, he hadn’t wanted to take a group trip down memory lane.

‘What kind?’ Hamm clearly hadn't got the memo.

Shelton shrugged. ‘Some mangy ass mutt.’ He answered, spitting into the mud between drags. ‘Only a scrap of a thing.’

‘What was he called?’ The question fell from Eugene's mouth before he could stop it.

Shelton's eyes flicked to him and he was silent for a moment, as though not wishing to personalise such information. Eugene was struck by the realisation that if anyone else had asked the question he would not have answered. He regretted asking it, immediately.

‘Nathan.’ He breathed, tightly.

Eugene nodded, holding his gaze with Shelton.

‘Good name for a dog.’ He said, lighting a cigarette of his own and settling down, resolving to finish the conversation.

‘How’d it die?’ Peck’s voice came again from the darkness and Eugene couldn't help but roll his eyes, _he was a fucking idiot_. ''Did it take one look at your ugly mud and bite the dust?' He cackled to himself, cattily.

‘Naw.' Shelton responded, tightly. 'Fucked y’Mama and the poor bastard dropped dead wi’ shame.’

Eugene and Hamm snorted, forgetting themselves for just a few moments.

He glanced back to Shelton.

The despondently, pained look still sat in his eyes.

Eugene lowered his own gaze back to the mud; he hated that look more than he hated the goddamn Japs.

* * *

He was awoken several hours later by a familiar kick to his calf, signifying it was his turn at watch.

He blinked his eyes open to see Shelton crouching over him, he might as well not even have shut his eyes, he felt like he hadn't slept at all.

‘Gene, you’re up.’ He stated, settling into the mud, beside him. ‘It’s just gone two.’

Exhaustion wasn't even the word, anymore, he just felt empty. Both of energy and emotion. He yawned and pinched the bridge of his nose, blinking water from his eyes.

‘Anything fun?’ He asked, stretching the last remnants of sleep from his muscles.

‘Zip.’ Shelton answered, shaking his head. ‘Yell’a bellies all tucked up for the night.’

‘Ready to rise bright eyed n' bushy tailed for another day of decimatin’ us tomorrow.’ Eugene mused, dryly.

‘Oh don’t you know it.’ Shelton agreed, lighting another cigarette.

‘You not goin’ to sleep?’ Eugene asked, not moving from his position beside him.

Shelton shook his head, watching the embers of his cigarette burn as he held smoke in his mouth. It billowed out through his nose as he exhaled. ‘Ain’t tired yet.’ He stated.

‘You OK?’ Eugene asked, brow knitting together in concern.

They lived by Ack-Ack's mantra. If they could sleep, they did - especially Shelton.

‘Fine, Sledgehammer.’ He murmured, with a nod. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ He gestured round the mud. ‘We got all this to enjoy.’

Eugene scoffed, lightly. ‘Okinawa kicks Coney Island to the dust.’

‘Damn right.’ Shelton nodded, with a grin, he turned his head towards Eugene. _‘_ You OK?’ 

He nodded, running his tongue over his gritty teeth in contemplation. ‘I’m fine.’ He lied.

Shelton fixed his gaze upon him through the darkness.

His Father would describe Merriell Shelton as a man with a thousand yard stare, haunted by the horrors of war.

Eugene knew it to be more than that.

He was not haunted by the horrors of war. He was simply haunted. A tortured soul entrenched with a lifetime of hardship, Shelton carried secrets - that much he knew. His vivacious bravado was a front, a flimsy one, at best. _I wear scars cos'a bastards like him... Watched my Momma weep her whole goddamn life..._ He had been damaged long before he even applied to the Marine Corps... the addition of war just acted as confetti to the tirade of trauma Shelton endured.

It physically pained him to think of it. He would take it all away if he could; if he knew how. He at least wished Shelton felt comfortable enough to share it with him.

No, Shelton's gaze spoke not of a thousand yards; Eugene had surmised a long time ago. It spoke of the thousand words that seemed eternally clutched in his throat, unable to voice whatever it was he truly wanted to say. He pondered whether it was from a lifetime of being unheard.

Instead, he replaced his thoughts with a tirade of sarcasm and abuse. Shelton's gaze had the ability to both strip a man of his inhibitions and fill him with them, simultaneously. However, it could also pierce to the very soul, stilling whoever was on the receiving end, until the gaze consumed you to a point you physically couldn't avert your gaze - even if you wanted to. At least, that was the impact it had on Eugene.

It seemed as though Shelton had the ability read every thought that went through his head, every worry or inhibition, nothing got by his stare; at least not when it came to him.

‘Don’ feel guilty.’ He murmured, after a moment, as though Eugene's inner musings were markered onto his helmet for all to see. ‘For feelin’ upset.’

Eugene remained quiet.

‘It’s easier to watch the people ‘round you die, get hurt...’ He continued, pressing his thumb against each finger. ‘Bill... They're friends sure... but they don’t mean nothin’ to you... s'why we're here... when this's over...' He smirked to himself, dryly, privy to his own joke.

'... _if_ this is ever over...' He amended. 'You ain't gonna spend your time willin' back these times... reminiscin' 'n shit... you're gonna get on wi'your life... you gon' spend your time willin' back the years you missed... times wi' Deacon.' He trailed off, taking a few drags of his cigarette before speaking again. 'Hamm’s right y'know...’

‘There’s a first.’ Eugene quipped and Shelton smirked again.

‘It’s a shame you couldn’t be there.’ He stated, his voice low. ‘It’d helped if you’d’a been there.’

Eugene paused. ‘Were you?’ He asked.

‘Huh?’ Shelton furrowed his brow.

‘For Nathan.’ Eugene continued.

He watched through the darkness as the vacancy and pain returned to Shelton’s eyes. He lowered his gaze and Eugene immediately regretted re-broaching the subject.

Slowly, he shook his head, kissing his lips.

He took a drag of his cigarette, glancing towards Hamm and Peck who were sound asleep at the opposite end of the fox hole. He looked back at Eugene, clearing his throat and resting his head against the back of the mud, docilely.

‘Had him… when I was a kid… eight… nine… maybe.’ He began, rubbing his eye, tossing his cigarette butt to the dirt before lighting another straight away. ‘Only spoke French... no English really, not really. So it weren't Nathan... It was _Nathan.'_ His eyes rolled to the left as a genuine smile ghosted his face. 'I was his favourite.’

There was a childlike joy in his statement.

‘Use’ta sleep on the porch mos’ nights…' He trailed off again. 'We... we were movin' round try'na find work... food... D'pression, y'know...' He lowered his gaze to his knees, hands continuing to pick at one another. 'We was livin' in some backwater in Arcadia... m'ybe... three fam'lies livin in the one shack... 'bout ten'a us...'

He trailed off, running his teeth over his lower lip, eyes darkening as he spoke, clearly struggling to relive the trauma.

'There was too much _breathin'_.' His voice cracked and Eugene thought for a horrifying moment he was crying, but slowly he continued. 'There were too much breathin' for me to sleep. So...' He gestured with his hand. 'I'd sleep on the porch... where it wa' quiet...' He smiled gently. 'And he’d sleep right there wi' me… every night… and he were covered in crawlers but we’d huddle on down t'gether… just me’n him.’

He took another drag and paused.

‘We… we had nothin’, Gene.’ He stated, glancing towards Eugene, painfully. ‘Y… you’ve gotta understand… we... we had nothin’.’ Hands still clawing against one another. ‘D’pression was _real bad_. Had no food. No money. Had nowhere’t live. No family that'd have anythin' to do with us… nothin’… ' He coughed and paused, chuckling dryly. 'Hell... had no damn shoes for two winters.'

Eugene could feel the pain emanating from him, he looked away. It felt perverse to watch him, an intrusion into his private life, instead, he caste his gaze down to his trembling hands. Filthy nails, bitten to the wick. Mud, grime and dried gun oil engrained against his dark skin. Burns and scrapes from the shrapnel and mortars standing out angrily against the dirty skin.

'My Momma’d just had the baby an’ ma… ma Daddy… he couldn’t find work cos everyone how much of a nasty drunk bastard he was…’ He scoffed. 'Pulled me outta school... I was the only one workin' mostly... fuckin' used to get paid in pickles, sometimes...'

He couldn't keep his hands still, twitching and scratching and pulling around his cigarette. Eugene had surmised it to be a nervous tick. He struggled with sincerity, found the notion difficult, strained beneath the exposure. He'd noted the movement earlier in the day, how he'd awkwardly played with his fingers as they'd spoken. 

He wanted to reach out and take one, hoping to offer a comfort against the pain. He didn't.

Eventually he continued. 'We were dyin', Gene... he was a prick... but even he gave a shit 'bout his babies starvin'’.

An unexplained feeling of sickness grew in Eugene’s stomach.

‘He used’ta wait for me at the end of the track to come home... Nathan… until one day I got home’n he wasn’t there.’ Shelton licked his lip. ‘Ma… ma Daddy'd sold him… to a man… for…’ He cleared his throat, as though something was obstructing it. ‘Sold him for baitin’ for the price of a pound'a rice and a bag of apples.’

Eugene shut his eyes.

'I fuckin' _loved_ that dog.' He stated with a wearisome laugh, raising his gaze to the sky for a moment. ''s one of the reasons why I fuckin' hate rice so much.' He smirked lightly at his own joke, taking another drag of his cigarette as he paused. 

A pricking sat in Eugene’s eyes as he watched Shelton wipe his nose and spit, once again, into the mud.

‘One thing you’ve got’t hold onto ‘bout Deacon.’ He stated, cracking his knuckles out in front of him before rolling his head towards Eugene, their faces inches apart.

‘He spend every damn day of his life knowin’ he w’loved. That’s somethin’ special…' He pressed a finger to Eugene's arm. 'Somethin’ special he had you to thank for.' He dropped his hand, returning to his cigarette. 'You might not’ve been there… but he know'd you love him. Dogs're special like that... _dogs know_.’

Eugene nodded, hoping the darkness masked the tears that dripped from his eyes,.

He bit into his lip, gazing at the man before him. He had a burning urge in his chest to do something... exactly what, he was unsure.

For a fleeting moment he considered kissing him, before immediately quelling such feeling down in his chest, where they belonged. That. That was... wrong. However, the longer he held Shelton's gaze, with a sickening feeling clenching in his stomach, he realised, if Shelton leant in first, he wouldn't pull away.

But he didn't. Instead, before he could talk himself out of it, Eugene gently pressed a palm over his twisting fists, in an attempt to quell his urgent movements.

Shelton froze. Glancing down at the hand Eugene held over his own, his thumb gently grazing the back of his knuckles, before returning his gaze to his face.

The moment lingered. Their bodies were warm against one another, but in a different way to the warmth of the oppressive air. It was comforting and tender, moreover, to Eugene it gave him an overwhelming sense of belonging.

It grounded him, finally alleviating some of the constricting pressure in his chest that had sat there since his Mother's letter. It felt right, making it impossibly easy to the forget the soaked clothes clinging to them, the dripping hair running water into their faces and the constricting rubber ponchos that sat between them.

Eugene's heart hammered against his chest, he wondered if his gaze mirrored Shelton's in that moment. The look of a man with a thousand repressed words beneath his tongue.

There was so much he wanted to say. Wanted to do. Perhaps he would reach forward to hold him, vowing to huddle together with him like Nathan had done or perhaps he would promise to never let him feel a pain like that alone again, perhaps he would simply promise just to stay. After all, that was the one thing he felt Shelton needed more than anything else - someone.

Instead, he swallowed, slowly removing his hand. He saw watched Shelton twitch slightly at the loss of contact, he felt it, too. A crippling reminder of their isolation. 

‘Thanks, Snaf.’ He whispered eventually, playing with the ring on his left hand, anything to try and remove the feeling of Shelton's skin beneath his.

Shelton nodded, before clearing his throat.

‘You OK to brood ‘lone now, Sledgehammer?’ He asked, breaking the tension with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

Eugene nodded, forcing a smile onto his own face. He patted Shelton on the shoulder as he rose to his feet, clambering up to the top of the foxhole to resume watch, mud slimy and slick beneath his knees. Anything to put some distance between them.

They wouldn't talk about it; they never did.

The touches and the embraces that they often found themselves in in the dead of night were just another even Eugene tried to force from his mind. To think of them would drive him insane, he didn't understand them himself, let alone had the articulacy to query them - even if in his own mind.

‘Nighty, night then.’ Shelton bade quietly, settling himself down into the alcove that Eugene had vacated, shutting his eyes. His cigarette still burning in his lips.

‘You’re gonna set yourself on fire one day.’ Eugene remarked, softly.

‘I’ll go out in a blaze of glory.’ He responded, keeping his eyelids firmly closed as he continued to nurse the cigarette as a small child would a pacifier. Its presence seemed to soothe him as he sucked in on it, expelling the smoke through his nose. ‘Better than a Jap Bayonette.’

Eugene did not respond, his tears warm as they fell to his cheeks as he cried.

As he cried for Deacon, for Nathan, for Shelton, for Bill, for himself, for all of them.

Had a Japanese soldier crept towards their hole that night, they’d all have been cannon-fodder, for he was sure he did not spend a moment looking outwards.

Instead, his gaze was held on Shelton’s sleeping face. He was curled in on himself, his jaw slackened, mouth ajar, helmet askew, cigarette long lost to the dirt beside him. He twitched his nose every so often and Eugene wondered if he was dreaming.

He hoped it was a good dream.

One thing that did not leave his face was the look of pain that he’d worn since first mention of Nathan.

Eugene would have given anything for him to have lost such a burden.

Even Deacon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I would love to know what you think!
> 
> * Title is an excerpt from the Rudyard Kipling poem 'A dog for Jesus.'


End file.
